I really like September. I was on a train last night chugging through Hexham and Wylam and Corbridge, and there was a glowing rustly twilight and a bonfire smell in the air. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here in the North of England either, despite all the things we grumble about like the long cold winters and the dog mess. I always feel romantic in September! I’m about to go and spend a week in a castle writing my novel. I hope it’s haunted, and that it’s got central heating.
Everything is breaking at the moment; computers, boilers, cars etc. I wonder why things always break in unison?
I also managed to do my tax, which always seems like the most bizarre activity. Is there someone somewhere who goes through all these brown envelopes looking at crumpled receipts with ‘stagewear’ written on them in biro? Writers could potentially claim everything against tax. Life is art after all. Things like turkish baths, facials, therapy, dog expenses…it’s all inspirational.